


and miles to go before i sleep

by ADreamingSongbird



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Depressed Victor Nikiforov, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Supportive Katsuki Yuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 21:09:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16730673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADreamingSongbird/pseuds/ADreamingSongbird
Summary: He gave the ice his heart and his soul, and it took, and it took, and ittook.How fitting it is, then, that he has no more love left to give to Winter.How fitting it is, then, that Winter takes anyway.





	and miles to go before i sleep

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost, which inspired this entire work.

The hills are silent, the trees rising starkly against the swirling, white sky. Snow crunches under his feet as the wind blows _(lonely, soft, sad)_ whistling between the branches, and somewhere, a lone bird twitters a plaintive call. There is no answer.

.

.

.

They always did tell him winter was the merriest time of year.

_(People laughing, singing under the stars, clinking mugs of hot cider together and twirling around snowy squares amid dozens of colorful lights. Dancing until red cheeks and bright eyes chase away the cold. Hands, held, not stuffed in pockets to grasp at meager whispers of warmth. Community. Togetherness. Family. Love.)_

Out here in the barren, desolate forest, Viktor cannot begin to understand why.

.

.

.

A whirlwind of color crashes into his life, and months later, he chases it across the world, not even caring that the cold of winter follows him around the curve of the globe. It snows the day he sees the man who gave him hope again, snows like it did all those days he watched it fall and wondered _why,_ but for the first time, he doesn’t feel empty as the flurries drift down around him.

It takes time.

It takes time, but eventually, Yuuri takes his hand and doesn’t let go.

Yuuri takes his hand, Yuuri slides a ring onto his finger, and Yuuri pledges to stay by his side and never leave him. Yuuri slips up, but Yuuri reassures him, later, and Yuuri _doesn’t let go._ And finally, for once, he doesn’t think he’ll need to hide his fingers in his pockets to stave off the cold anymore.

It feels good.

.

.

.

One morning, in late autumn, he finds himself out on his balcony, wrapped in a thick robe and warm in his fuzzy socks, as the sunrise paints the skyline of his home city with a wash of pinks and purples and gold. Gold, like the gold he’s chased all his life, only to find it empty. Gold, like the yoke of expectations and rules and chains. Gold, like the chill of a medal’s touch in the dead of winter.

Gold, like his wedding ring.

He wraps his hands around his coffee mug for warmth, breathing in the steam and the stillness of the slowly-waking city. Up here, it’s almost quiet—as quiet as a city gets—as the sun climbs into the sky, spreading radiance, chasing away the night and the stars. Viktor watches them retreat beneath the horizon and turns his face to the sun, closing his eyes to bask in its warmth.

There’s something to be said for the peace one finds in watching light conquer darkness, a quiet thing, a gentle, eternal reminder that _day will come again._

Behind him, the door slides open, and then closes again, and after a moment, arms encircle his waist and a warm, soft weight leans into his back. A smile tugs at his lips, unbidden. “Good morning.”

The day that comes again, sunshine incarnate, nuzzles a kiss against the back of his shoulder. “G’morning. Cold.”

And Viktor can’t help but laugh softly, turning to his husband. Yuuri fits nicely in his arms, tucked against his chest, and Viktor can’t help but press his lips to his forehead, admiring the play of the sunlight on his dark hair. “If you’re cold, why did you come outside?”

Yuuri looks up at him, his eyes still sleepy and his little pout oh so very kissable. “My space heater left. I missed you.”

Warmth kindles in his chest like a spark, melting away the chill of all the winters yet to come. “I wanted to watch the sun rise.”

Yuuri hums, laying his head down on his shoulder. “Can I join?”

“I would love nothing more,” Viktor tells him. “Stay.”

Yuuri takes his coffee and sips it slowly, standing in his arms, and Viktor chuckles, amused and fond. It doesn’t matter—he’s holding something much more precious than a mug now, and he never wants to let go.

“Look,” Yuuri murmurs, pointing into the sky. His arm is wrapped firmly around Viktor’s waist, holding him close and pressing him against all the lithe lines of his husband’s body, wrapped as he is in his oversized pajamas. This feels like _home,_ so much so that his heart physically aches in his chest. “I like that pink on the clouds.”

Viktor never looks away from him, not even for a moment. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Yuuri hums, looking back up at him. They smile at each other for a moment, then go back to watching the sun and the clouds, and on the distant edge of the horizon, night finally slips away. Bathed in the light of the golden sun and kissed softly by its warmth, Viktor holds his fiancé and thinks about the end of winter.

.

.

.

But winter returns.

The snow begins to fall.

The world goes white.

Once again, it’s too much.

.

.

.

He goes to the rink before the sun rises and carves his heart into the ice. There’s desperation warring with hope, fear fighting with determination, and hopelessness competing with desire. He’s full of conflict and he hates it, hates that he’s unhappy again and doesn’t know why, hates that he can’t shut himself and be full of nothing but the love he feels so strongly.

His body aches by the time he’s done, and he falls asleep in Yuuri’s arms, curled up on the couch under a thick blanket. In the morning, he wakes and does it all over again.

It isn’t enough.

.

.

.

Viktor goes for a walk along a path he knows very well, a path he’s always taken when the walls of his apartment grow to be too stifling, too close, too warm. The cold wind whistles through the trees like the sigh of a forsaken lover, curling around his skin as if to ask, _where have you been? Why haven’t you come to see me? I’ve missed you._

“Hello, winter,” he murmurs. “It’s been a while.”

His boots crunch in the snow. The trees, bare and leafless, rise up into the sky, dark against the pale, grey clouds that keep dusting snow down over the chilled earth, and he walks on, meanders the slippery path into the forest. Its sanctuary has always been a double-edged sword, and he feels the winter’s chill, sharp against his skin.

He tucks his hands into his pockets as he nears the creek, partly but not fully frozen over, and stares down into the dark water trickling over its tiny waterfalls. The rocks in the middle are icy, and along the edges of the waterfalls are icicles hanging like lace. It’s oddly soothing and oddly hypnotic, watching the falling water as it leaps over the edges of the stones, hurtling into the unknown before splashing down into the pool at its base.

He dusts the snow from a rock at the water’s edge and sits down, shivering as the chill seeps through his clothes and into his bones.

“I thought I wouldn’t have to come out here again,” he tells the waterfall and the wind and the white, white snow, conversational and calm. “I thought I was done feeling like this. Silly of me, wasn’t it?”

He has someone to hold his hands now, has someone to clink mugs with, has someone who would sing and dance the night away with him if he asked. But he never knows when that someone will get tired of him (doesn’t everyone?), and instead of leaving him, the winter in his heart has morphed into a new blizzard, one he’s never dealt with before. How does he convince himself everything will be alright now, when he’s only just figured out that he’ll most likely never be free of his mind’s winter storms?

“I have to be enough for him,” he admits into the forlorn wind. “But I don’t know how, sometimes, and I’m afraid.”

Far away, a lonely bird calls out into the empty, hushed woods.

It’s beautiful, wandering through the forest in winter. The trees are covered in snow so fluffy it could be candy, and the pristine white of the ground is untouched, perfect, and heartbreaking. Snowflakes flurry down into his hat and his hair, melting as they land, and he lets out a slow sigh, watching the steam of his breath dissipate into the air.

“I’ve been naïve, I think.”

The waterfall doesn’t answer, but he keeps talking to it anyway, watching the stream careen over the edge of the drop.

“I thought finding love would fix me. I should have known it’d be harder than that.”

If only he could be like the water. It leaps over the edge, not knowing if the pool where it will land is a few centimeters down, or a kilometer. It just has the faith that it will land, somewhere, and that everything will work out to take it to the sea, no matter the height of its fall.

If only he could trust like that.

If only he could believe…

Something slots neatly into place, and he stands, abruptly, not sure how long he’s been watching the creek but suddenly aware of how cold he is, in the dark winter.

_Day will come again._

“Good night,” he tells the forest. “I think I need to go talk to my husband.”

.

.

.

He takes a cab back into the city after he realizes that his phone is dead thanks to the cold, watching the snow flurry outside the window. The driver seems content not to strike up small talk, and Viktor is grateful—he could manage, he’s sure, but the quiet ache in his chest means that he doesn’t _want_ to.

By the time he gets home, he’s shivering. When he opens the door, Yuuri comes running—

“Vitya!”

—and crashes into him with a tight, tight hug, not seeming to care that his coat is soaked from snow and that he radiates cold. He buries his face in his chest for a long, long moment, shudders in his arms, and then finally pulls back to cup his face, his hands shaking. Viktor looks at him for a long moment, unable to tear his gaze away, and realizes that his eyes are red.

“Yuuri,” he whispers. “My love.”

Yuuri takes his hat first, then his scarf, and then his gloves. The coat is next, and then Yuuri urges him out of his shoes and leads him to the bedroom, where he strips off the sweater and shirt and then his pants and socks and quietly urges him into the shower.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs, pushing him gently but firmly into the bathroom. “Oh, Vitya, where have you _been?_ I was so worried—no, no. Hot shower first. Okay. I—I’ll make tea—”

Desperation squeezes his heart and makes his chest hurt even more poignantly than before. Viktor catches his wrist.

“Stay?”

Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat, his eyes widening for just an instant, and he’s close enough that Viktor can admire his dark eyelashes in full, the way his lips part in soft surprise before his face melts into the sweetest smile the world has ever seen.

“Of course,” he says, and leans in to kiss him.

It’s a soft kiss, sweet and full of warmth. Yuuri tastes like _home._

They stand together in the hot water, quiet but together, and Yuuri massages shampoo and then conditioner into his hair, running his fingers through it so tenderly it brings tears to his eyes. He washes Yuuri’s hair, too, and Yuuri pulls him into a hug afterwards, letting Viktor shudder as he burrows into his arms.

“Where did you go?” he asks, quietly, as they both dry off. “I was worried.”

Viktor presses his lips together. “I went for a walk. I lost track of time. I—I didn’t realize it got so late or that my phone died. I’m sorry.”

Yuuri gives him a long, slow, searching look, then reaches over and takes his hand. It’s such a simple gesture, but it fills him with security and wistfulness at the same time, until their mingled forces rise in his throat and almost choke him. He squeezes back, and Yuuri smiles very slightly.

“And?”

“And…?”

Yuuri strokes his thumb over his knuckles. “There’s more to this story.”

Viktor is quiet for a long, long moment, winter rising and swirling in his mind again, reaching icy fingers toward his heart.

He thinks again of the waterfall and its steadfast faith.

 _No,_ he tells winter. _Not this time._

“I was scared,” he bursts out, before he can doubt himself and find an easy lie. “I was scared you  might get bored of me. That—that one day you’ll realize I’m not—that I’m not good enough for you. I—I always want to make everyone happy, but I get so _tired_ sometimes, and I—I don’t want to make you hate me, but I’m _scared._ I’m just—would you love me if I wasn’t Viktor Nikiforov? If I was just Vitya? Would _anyone?_ ”

Yuuri stares at him for a long moment, his eyes dark and inscrutable.

Winter’s winds rise and sing a little louder.

“Yes,” Yuuri finally says, and the intensity of his voice almost makes Viktor stumble back in surprise. “ _Yes_ , I would love you if you never won a single gold medal. I’d still love you if you had set foot on the ice in your life. I would love you even if I met you on the street and had no idea who you were past that you had a poodle.”

As he speaks, Yuuri advances on him, until he’s backed up against the counter, Yuuri’s finger prodding him in the chest. “I—Yuuri—”

Yuuri’s arms wind around his waist, holding him tight. “I would love you no matter what,” he says softly, still serious and intense. “You _are_ Vitya. Not ‘just’ Vitya, though. Vitya is my husband, and I love him for who he is, not who people want him to be. Not for who he wants himself to be, either. So don’t you dare talk badly about him.”

Viktor’s voice cracks, and he leans forward to bury his face in Yuuri’s neck, not quite crying but certainly close as he croaks out, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Yuuri murmurs, more gently as he strokes his back. “I’m not going to get bored of you any more than you’re going to get bored of me. Just be yourself, okay? That’s more than enough for me.”

Vaguely, it registers that Yuuri of a year ago would have struggled to be so confident in asserting that Viktor would never get bored of him. Perhaps, in managing to convince his husband of that fact, he _has_ done something right.

“I love you,” he manages again, squeezing tighter. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Yuuri hums, rocking him back and forth. “I really, really do.”

“I hate winter,” Viktor blurts out, pressing his face into the soft skin of Yuuri’s neck. He smells good, like the lavender-scented body wash in the shower. “I hate it. It’s cold and everything dies and there’s no color, anywhere, and I’m on the outside looking in, and I hate it.”

Yuuri squeezes him tighter and presses a kiss into his hair. “Spring will be here soon. We can plant flowers.”

Viktor thinks of flashes of color growing in the windowboxes, thinks of planters and herbs and roses trailing on the balcony, thinks of being able to nurture something and make it grow, and feels the last remnants of the icy fist clenched around his heart defrost.

“I’d like that,” he mumbles, and for the first time today, he smiles.

.

.

.

He wakes in the morning after that, tired but reassured. Winter still swirls outside, grey and cold, but he thinks about the intensity of Yuuri’s focus and love last night, and that makes things a little warmer.

Winter will not hold sway over him forever.

Spring is the color of hope, and he will let it shine.

.

.

.

He comes home a little late that day, after Yakov asked him to stay back to discuss a few things about the program he’s choreographing for Mila next season, and stops in the doorway to the living room as Makkachin prances around his legs, _whuff_ ing softly.

The room is aglow, covered in string lights and lit with a cozy warmth that settles directly into his chest. There is a pile of blankets and pillows on the couch, and there are sticky notes on the walls, too—colorful and small, but cheerful nonetheless. Some of them feature silly little drawings of trees or snowflakes or skates; others have curly puffballs that must be Makkachin, and a few others have stick figures hugging each other.

Some have writing.

Viktor leans closer to one, absently scratching Makkachin’s ears as she butts her head under his hand, and feels his chest tighten as a smile tugs at his mouth.

_You’re very cute when you wake up and your hair is all messy._

“Makkachin,” he murmurs, leaning down to hug his sweet old girl, “our Yuuri is a treasure.”

The next one reads _I love it when you read to me,_ and the one after that says _I’ve never felt as safe around anyone as I do with you._ The next one reads _Your laugh is my favorite laugh,_ and the one he finds next says _Your creativity will never stop blowing me away,_ and after that he stops reading even though there’s so many more notes, because he _has_ to find his husband.

Yuuri is lying on their bed, sprawled across the pillows and playing some game on his phone with his headphones on, when Viktor rushes in and tackles him with a wordless cry. Yuuri lets out a surprised squeak that turns into breathless laughter as Viktor peppers his face with kiss after kiss, nuzzling him and pouring out affection until his heart stops feeling like it might burst.

“Hi,” Yuuri says, face alight and beaming, as he wraps his arms around Viktor’s shoulders. “I take it you liked your surprise?”

“I—I _love_ it,” Viktor breathes, kissing him again. “Yuuri, my god, I can’t believe…”

Yuuri grins like the cat with the cream and scrunches his hand through Viktor’s hair. “I thought you’d enjoy having something cozy and colorful,” he says, and Viktor hums in contentment, heart brimming with joy. “We’re building a blanket fort after dinner, and then we’re going to watch cartoons.”

Viktor sighs dreamily and leans down to press their foreheads together. Yuuri makes a contented little sound and pets his hair some more. “If I hadn’t already married you, I’d be proposing to you on the spot,” he admits, and kisses his husband. His husband. His sunshine.

Yuuri laughs sweetly. “I’d say yes, you know.”

“I just can’t believe you had the time for something like this,” Viktor marvels, nuzzling his cheek. “How did you…”

Yuuri’s smile turns a little sheepish. “I might have slept for about an hour last night?”

Viktor is flabbergasted. _“Yuuri.”_

Yuuri giggles, actually giggles, and pecks his lips. “I had a good excuse,” he says. “I wanted to do something nice for my sad husband. Because I love him for who he is, and he deserves nice things.”

“You’ll make me cry,” Viktor warns, closing his eyes as happiness threatens to overwhelm him. “You’re the best, oh my god…”

“You deserve nothing less,” Yuuri says, satisfied, and hugs him tight.

.

.

.

He takes Yuuri to visit the woods, one day, holds his hand as he leads him through the trees to the creek. He’s never been here with someone before.

“Oh,” Yuuri sighs, looking around. His cheeks are all pink from the cold, and Viktor has never loved him more than in this moment. “Oh, Vitya, it’s lovely here.”

 _Lovely_ is not the word Viktor originally associated with this place, but it’s only one letter off. But now, he thinks Yuuri is right; _lovely_ is a far better term than _lonely._

“It is,” he agrees, and Yuuri leans against his chest as the snow flurries around them. The woods are hushed and content, and the creek flows down to the sea.

Somewhere in the distance, the lonesome bird calls, but this time, another bird answers.

**Author's Note:**

> vitya is out here doin his best pls help him hes just got depression but hes trying... my pretentious, metaphor-loving ass would kill for him


End file.
